


To Hurt You I Have to Know You

by Red_Tigress



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Athos and D'art are only in this briefly, Episode Tag to 1x08, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I definitely have a whump problem, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-16
Updated: 2014-04-16
Packaged: 2018-01-19 13:55:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1472314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red_Tigress/pseuds/Red_Tigress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post 1x08. Aramis still hasn't forgiven Porthos for almost leaving. Not really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Hurt You I Have to Know You

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Meskeet and Tenebrielle for the edits.

The night of D’Artagnan’s commission, the entire barracks was out celebrating. D’Artagnan didn’t pay for one drink, and every Musketeer took the time to find him and congratulate him personally at least once that night.

They had all been drinking heavily for a few hours when D’Artagnan slumped into a chair at the table with Porthos, Athos and Aramis. The grin that had been on his face all night was still very much present. Porthos smiled and pushed a drink his way. “It still doesn’t feel real,” D’Artagnan said breathlessly.

“It’ll feel real enough in the morning,” Aramis grinned, nodding towards the ale on the table.

They all laughed, before D’Artagnan turned to them, his grin a small smile now, as he looked at each of them in turn. “Thank you all. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

Athos clapped him on the back as Aramis said “Well with Porthos threatening to leave every other week we didn’t think it’d hurt to train a replacement.”

Porthos gave him a dubious smirk. “What’s that supposed to mean?” The smile was still on his face, but his eyes narrowed in honest confusion.

Aramis, face flushed by wine, gave a snort. “Oh please. You were completely ready to run off with your new wife Alice to the lap of luxury in a heartbeat. I saw you!” He grinned, but it was off slightly. Like he had just tasted something bittersweet.

Porthos squared his shoulders, unconsciously making himself fill up the cramped space, and Aramis knew he’d touched a nerve. He hadn’t been planning that. Or had he? The haze of the wine blurred his thoughts.

Porthos’ smile was rapidly fading. “Well, I didn’t.” He raised an eyebrow, leaning forward and further imposing himself in the space. “And just because you’ve never loved any woman you’ve bedded-”

Aramis barked out a laugh, a harsh and bitter laugh, interrupting him. Rage and jealousy reared its ugly head, claws digging into him before he could even ponder out why. He was suddenly angry, because he loved women, _had loved_ a lot of them and for a myriad of reasons. And he tiptoed around dangerous waters, but he _endured._ He was a lover, he was a soldier, and he did both with equal abandon. He saw Porthos, not being able to do both, because the man committed his entire soul to something, when Aramis tore his in two. And Aramis was terrified one day the soldier in Porthos’ soul wouldn’t win. “You’ve _loved_ every woman you’ve bedded, which is your problem! You get too attached, ready to run off at any moment. Like the woman down at the Court?”

“You leave her out of this,” Porthos growled, low and quiet. The air, which had been jovial before, was now filled with the feeling of a storm about to downpour. D’Artagnan’s face had long since fallen as he watched the two of them with surprise. Athos himself even seemed stunned into becoming more silent than usual.

But no, Aramis was ready to twist the knife. Porthos was the better man than he, never putting people recklessly in danger, chances given to him and being snatched away just as quickly and the man had the audacity to still be the most honest and uplifting spirit he’d ever met. Aramis had already lost one brother in the musketeers; every time Porthos entertained thoughts of a better life, Aramis, selfish Aramis, wanted to punish him for it. “You even were so ready to travel across the world and make your own fortune with Bonnaire before you found out he was a slave trader. Tell me,” and now Aramis’ eyes narrowed in challenge and a quite undignified smirk. “Are we really so terrible you’d take any chance you could to get out?”

Drunk or not, Porthos moved like a lion, fast, powerful, and deadly. He shot to his feet, chair clattering to the floor behind him, swinging a fist at Aramis’ face. The other man clearly hadn’t been ready for it, and with the sickening sound of flesh impacting flesh, he was knocked sideways into a very surprised D’Artagnan.

“PORTHOS!” The shout quieted the bar, as every head turned in their direction.

Porthos was breathing harshly like he had just sprinted a hundred meters. His eyes were wild with rage and more than a little hurt as they darted from Aramis moaning in pain back to Athos.

“Walk it off,” Athos commanded, voice low and leaving no room for argument. Porthos looked like he was about to protest, but his eyes fell back on Aramis as the other man stood up. Porthos closed his mouth and spun around, the now silent tavern parting for him as he stormed out.

When he was gone, Athos spun to face Aramis, eyes livid. “What in _hell_ was that about?”

Aramis rubbed his jaw, not looking up. Overwhelming shame had washed over him, immediately replacing the anger, hurt and jealousy.

“What you said to Porthos is inexcusable,” Athos hissed. “A man who never lifts a hand in his own defense when comments and insults are hurled at him by strangers and yet you, his _friend_ , his _brother_ , for whatever reason, has decided to wound him so thoroughly that he lifts a hand to _you_.”

The realization served to instantly sober him. Aramis lurched to his feet. “I…I have to find him.” Athos’ hand pushed him roughly back into his seat.

“Not until you’ve both cooled off. And apologized to D’Artagnan for ruining his moment of celebration.”

Aramis spun towards D’Artagnan, looking even more ashamed, as he bowed low. “My deepest apologies, D’Artagnan. I have acted in a manner not only unbefitting of a Musketeer, but unbefitting of your friendship as well.”

Aramis’ raw sincerity made D’Artagnan blink in surprise, but he gave a drunken wave. “Accepted,” he said.

“My thanks,” Aramis said. “But now I must find Porthos.”

“You are not going after him like this,” Athos insisted.

“Yes I am! I have done him a grievous wrong. I…” Aramis ran a hand through his hair with frustration. “I do not know what came over me.”

“Alcohol,” Athos said succinctly. “But believe me, that is really no excuse.” He gave a resigned sigh. “We will help you find Porthos, if only so you can apologize that much quicker.”

Aramis nodded gratefully and they headed out into the night, D’Artagnan following.

*

*

*

Porthos was moving in the opposite direction of the barracks, hurt and fuming, and maybe even slightly guilty. Maybe if he hadn’t been so drunk, and still bristling with sorrow about Alice, he may have noticed Aramis’ irritation with him before it had exploded into this.

He shouldn’t have hit him.

Of course Aramis would be scared of him leaving. It had taken a while for them to become friends, because Aramis had been afraid of getting close to anyone. Especially after Savoy. Porthos cursed himself. He should have seen it sooner. What kind of a friend was he?

He bit his bottom lip, leaning against the corner of a building. He shouldn’t have hit his best friend, but he just hadn’t expected those words from Aramis, and so soon after what happened with Alice.

_It had hurt._

He pushed himself up, stumbling slightly both from the wine and also the slippery cobblestones from the recent rain. As he did, he heard laughter nearby.

“Look, if it isn’t the Musketeers’ Mongrel.” Porthos turned, glaring, to find five Red Guard men approaching him.

He let the insult bounce off of him. He was far past such things as what the Red Guard would call him, to his back or to his face, he didn’t care. “Leave it alone, boys, I’m not in the mood,” he growled. Porthos actually was in the mood to fight, which meant he shouldn’t; he’d gone out of his way to stay out of fights with them that weren’t warranted. They already believed him to be the Musketeers giant brute of a man, slow-witted and picked out of the Court of Miracles for only his thuggishness. He proved them wrong by not engaging, or laughing it off, but tonight he was in no mood to do either.

They laughed, low and dangerous. The laugh of men too cocky, and out to show the world they were better than it when the opposite was true. The laugh of men about to do something stupid and wicked.

Porthos stood up, trying not to sway from the amount of alcohol in his blood. “You should take your anger out on the Cardinal. After all, he was the one who thought a thieving murderer was better than you lot.”

In hindsight, he shouldn’t have goaded them. But he was just so tired of it.

The first swung a fist at him, which he blocked easily, kicking the man in the stomach. He fell to the ground with a cry. The next two rushed him, and Porthos grabbed one, swinging him up and over his hip where he fell on his back. The other one knew a bit of technique and aimed low while Porthos was manhandling his companion. Porthos twisted so the blow would glance off his hip and not go into his gut, and blocked the follow up. He jabbed, making the man bring both arms up to block his face, and then kicked out his foot. He hooked it around the other man’s leg, pulling forward sharply and making him tumble to the ground. Porthos punched his face once, savagely, rendering him unconscious.

He stood up, not surprised to see more guards hurrying to their fellows’ aid.

Very well, he’d take them all.

It was a stupid idea, but Porthos had never been one to back down from a fight, especially one he didn’t instigate and that was already in progress. And it distracted him from the bitterness he felt welling up in his heart.

No swords or guns were used, the Red Guard at least avoiding the taboo of not bringing weapons to a fist fight. But that did not mean they fought honorably.

As two attacked Porthos from the front, two more attacked him from behind, trying to drag him down. One leapt on his back, the other hitting him savagely in the kidneys, while another still went for his face. He blocked, lashing out, reached behind him and felt a handful of hair give way. He grunted as more fists pounded into his stomach, and he tried to tighten the muscles there. He shouted as more fists pummeled him, but kept his feet. That is until someone kicked him in the back of the knee making him pitch forward. The Red Guards seized their opportunity, dragging him the rest of the way to the ground and trying to pin his arms and legs. He thrashed wildly, trying to get free, as more blows rained down on him.

He managed to get one arm free, and promptly broke a man’s nose. He rolled, taking the others with him, and kicked out. His boots met flesh, and more cries. His body was burning, cuts and bruises everywhere, but he scrambled to his feet.

He couldn’t see out of one eye, blood running into it from a cut he could feel on his forehead. He also felt the tightening in the other eye that meant the skin around it was beginning to swell. He counted four more men, standing up and recovering their breaths, looking at him murderously.

There was a shout from behind him, but Porthos didn’t turn. He was consumed with bloodlust, ready to finish the job. But just as he was about to lunge, the guards were turning tail and running. Confused, he turned to look behind him.

Athos, Aramis and D’Artagnan stood there, looking very shocked and worried, even though they had their swords drawn.

“Porthos?” Aramis asked, worry clouding his voice as he sheathed his sword.

Porthos rolled one shoulder which cracked painfully as he turned away from Aramis. “Coulda handled it,” he mumbled.

“Porthos, you’re injured,” Athos pointed out.

“W-well enough,” he stammered. He spun away, but the world continued to spin with him. He was suddenly tipping to the side, the alcohol and injuries catching up with him as the bloodlust fled. The last thing he felt were hands supporting him and worried, urgent voices as his world faded to black.

*

*

*

Porthos drifted in and out of consciousness for the next good while. He remembered things, brief snatches of things. Aramis’ guilt-ridden face, Athos’ angry one. Pain in his knee, pain in his ribs. It made him tired, made him weak.

So Porthos did what he always did. He fought.

The pain intensified, and he couldn’t keep in the moan that escaped his lips.

There was a scrabbling sound as a wooden chair was pushed around hastily. “Porthos?” said a worried voice above him.

He was lying on a thin mattress, probably his own. The room smelled like the barracks. Porthos opened his eyes, wincing. Aramis was above him, looking for all the world like someone had just stolen his favorite gilded pistol.

Porthos groaned again, and Aramis mistook his pain for frustration at the person above him. His face visibly fell as he looked away. “I’ll get Athos,” he said quietly.

Porthos’ hand shot out, grabbing the other man’s wrist. “I am in pain, you idiot. Do you really think,” Porthos took a deep, painful breath that jostled his ribs. “…think I am angry at you?”

“You…have every right to be.” The disbelief in Aramis’ tone was palpable. He wouldn’t meet Porthos’ eyes. “Porthos-”

“Stop, Aramis.”

“I am a cruel man. The things I said to you today were the words of a man with hatred in his heart,” Aramis said quietly.

Porthos, having never been very eloquent, struggled with what to say. He could see the guilt and shame plaguing his friend, but Aramis may have been right to worry. The black bruise on Aramis’ jaw only served to further shame him, but Porthos felt he owed his friend an explanation. He finally settled on “It hurt.”

Aramis flinched as if struck. “Like I said, not a good man.” He tried to stand but Porthos pulled him down again.

“I hit you,” he growled.

Aramis sighed, still not meeting his eyes. “You hit me because I know you. I exploited your insecurities. No friend has any right to do that. And then you were hurt because of me.”

Porthos chewed at his lower lip. It was true, Aramis had tapped into those low opinions of himself, the things which he desperately tried to push down. But Aramis had been hurting too.

“I forgive you,” Porthos announced.

Aramis did meet his eyes then, and they were filled with anger. “What?”

“I said I forgive you,” he tried to push himself into a sitting position, fighting back a moan.

“You-you cannot just _forgive_ me!” Aramis sputtered.

“Why not?” Porthos asked, narrowing his un-swollen eye in challenge.

“You should not forgive me for taking out my anger and jealousy and fear on a friend.”

Porthos bristled. “Who are you to tell me what I can and can’t do?”

Aramis snapped his head in his direction, looking very dangerous. Porthos had only very occasionally seen that look turned on him. The first time it had happened, somewhere deep down he had been afraid. But not now.

“Because you’re wrong,” Aramis said quietly. “You’re wrong about me.”

Porthos sighed, looking down and fumbling with the hem of his shirt. “Then I’m wrong about myself too. And then what hope for us is there?”

Aramis’ face instantly softened. “Porthos…”

Porthos shook his head. “Nah. Like I said, I forgive you.”

Aramis just nodded this time. “I can’t fault you for wanting a better life for yourself.”

“And I can’t fault you for not wanting me to leave,” Porthos said honestly. Looking at his friend now, he knew that without his friends, Aramis may not survive being alone again. He would never voice it out loud, though. He gave a small smile. “It was true, what I said earlier. You _do_ need someone to take care of you.”

Aramis frowned at him, but it was endearing. “You may be right.”

Porthos raised an eyebrow. “What are you planning?”

“Nothing.”

“He’s going to shoot all the Red Guards!” D’Artagnan’s muffled voice sounded through the door, followed by a thump and a yelp of protest.

Porthos grinned. “Stop hitting the boy, Athos, you’ll mess up his head.” He turned back to Aramis.

The other man shrugged. “I won’t deny it. Clearly they’re still bitter about the events of today.” He eyed Porthos’ bruises with a sneer and an unspoken promise.

“Next time I’ll try not to beat them all up without you,” Porthos assured him.

Aramis smiled, genuinely now, and clapped him on the shoulder in appreciation. “Next time, I won’t let you go alone in the first place.”

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry this wasn't really about D'Artagnan and Constance at all. Murp. >.> Anyways, thanks for reading.


End file.
